- Music
- 22 Mar 05
Word around the campfire (well, okay, judging by the press release) suggests that this, the fourth album from Garbage, is a record that’s lucky to have gotten this far. Bleed Like Me, it seems, has had a troubled gestation...
Word around the campfire (well, okay, judging by the press release) suggests that this, the fourth album from Garbage, is a record that’s lucky to have gotten this far. Bleed Like Me, it seems, has had a troubled gestation. Before any songs had been written, Butch Vig was diagnosed with Type A hepatitis, while Shirley Manson, after losing her voice, had no option but to undergo surgery to remove a cyst on her vocal chord. Unfortunately for the band, this bad karma survived the recuperation process of their two main players, and, a matter of weeks into their initial studio time, a dispirited Vig called it quits. Manson freely admits that the band at this stage had broken up.
Given the shenanigans going on backstage, you would wonder if Bleed Like Me carries any kind of scarring. Is it (like Suede’s Dog Man Star) an album frayed at the edges and haunted by a sense of disintegration and departure?
Well, no. Not on an initial encounter. If there was any collateral damage, all traces have been scrupulously airbrushed away. The Garbage template survives intact – some Raincoat Goth, skater boy rock and knowing indie, all wrapped up in a seductive (and lucrative), nothing-to-be-scared-of mix. ‘Run Baby Run’, ‘Why Don’t You Come Over’ and ‘Why Do You Love Me’ – if you have MTV2, then prepare for introductions. These songs are as focused and studiously crafted as anything the four-piece have recorded to date. Indeed, the immaculately honed nature of much of the material is the defining feature of the record. It’s as if the three producers in Garbage’s ranks have made sure that none of the uncertainty surrounding the band has coloured the music.
Which is disappointing. Because Bleed Like Me, despite its guest appearances (Dave Grohl, Matt Walker), commendable cat-calls in the direction of the moral majority (‘Sex Is Not The Enemy’), and unexpectedly fine PJ Harvey impersonation from Shirley (‘Why Don’t You Come Over’), never quite connects on an emotional level. Considering the messy context in which it was created, you would expect Garbage to have left some intriguing finger prints. Unfortunately, their forensic instincts have seen them scrub the crime scene clean.